


Long Live the King

by Shyaway95



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers, character comparison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 05:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shyaway95/pseuds/Shyaway95
Summary: For all that Vortigern and Arthur were very different people, they were also very much the same.





	Long Live the King

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: MAJOR spoilers for “King Arthur: the Legend of the Sword.” Like, really big spoilers. This character comparison is made almost entirely based on scenes directly from the movie.
> 
> Honestly, I freaking loved this movie. The reviews were unjustly cruel to it, in my opinion. It was fast-paced (with a lot of information, could have made two movies out of it honestly) and the CGI could have been better, but it was fucking amazing. The characters were new and fresh, and the ideas and concepts were enthralling. Not even remotely historically accurate, but that makes it better, frankly. You’re transported to an enchanting and fantastic new world that seems to exist at right angles from our own. Similar enough, and yet so different. Go watch it. XD
> 
> (I only saw it once, so the quotes are from memory and may not be 100% accurate to what was actually said. I’ll edit when I can see the movie next.)

 

**“What gives you such drive?..... I suppose it doesn’t matter. Your death will give my reign even more power. For that, I bless you.” - Vortigern Pendragon, The Usurper**

 

~ 

Vortigern had always thirsted for power. 

He trained regularly with the royal guard, learned the steps, the parries, and the blocks until he could perform them in his sleep. But no matter how hard he practiced, his brother was better. He soon learned that the power of his blade was limited because, no matter how skilled a soldier he became, he could not ever hope to exceed his brother. Uther was the first born, the true heir, and that was all that mattered in the eyes of the court. 

When their father suggested Vortigern be sent to learn the magick arts as an act of diplomacy towards the mages, he had jumped at the chance. He had seen what mages were capable of, what the great Merlin himself had done to ensure their father’s reign. To learn that power, to wield it with his own two hands, had given him a rush like nothing he had ever experienced before. 

It was there that he found Mordred, the first kindred spirit he had ever met. They both reached for the stars, desired to drag them down to the earth and bask in their light. They wanted to control the tides, bend the forces of nature to their wills, and hear the exalted cries of their people chanting their names to the heavens. 

They both sought power to shape the world around them into the order they envisioned. 

Vortigern was smart. He could read a text and immediately understand it and the words never faded even after months had passed. He took to magick easily, learning the incantations and the theories behind this most archaic art as thoroughly as possible. He studied the art of Tower Building fanatically, knowing that soon, _soon_ , this would become the key to his own ascent to absolute power. 

When their father stepped down from the throne and granted Uther Excalibur, giving him its power and warning him to use it with dignity and foresight, Vortigern felt his long-lived resentment burn in his chest and scorch him from the inside. His thoughts circled like hungry vultures around the fact that _the power of Excalibur should be his._  

He deserved to rule more than his soft-hearted brother ever did. 

This was the last insult he would suffer at the hands of his family, and he began to see his many plots to fruition. When Mordred was struck down by Uther like a common thug, ending the rebellion in a single, blood soaked instant, Vortigern was forced to turn to horrific measures to ensure the success of his plans. 

His wife’s blood paid for the destruction of his brother’s empire. It lent him the power he needed to build his own nation, a bastion of strength and ambition that was his, and his alone, to rule in its place. 

In defeat, his brother proved to be more fierce and vindictive than Vortigern had ever imagined. Uther might have died believing he had saved his son, but Vortigern knew it was only a matter of time until he found his nephew. By then, the boy would have to be executed publicly to dissolve any rebellious rumors. Uther had merely condemned his son to suffer for the sins of his father instead of dying as an infant, held securely in his uncle’s arms as he was swiftly and painlessly ushered into the afterlife. 

It saddened Vortigern to know that another of his kin would have to suffer more than he had intended. 

By the end of that fateful night, Vortigern’s daughter was safe, if sad and alone, and his kingdom was secured. 

The mage purges were efficient and ruthless, just as he had ordered, and the construction of his Tower had begun. He could feel his strength growing steadily. Everything was going according to plan. 

They called him ‘King,’ and he was content. 

~ 

_Arthur had never desired power for power’s sake._  

_The girls in the brothel raised him. They were his mothers, sisters, and aunts, and every time one of their clients hit them, hurt them, or took from them more than they were willing to give, Arthur could do nothing but rage helplessly. He was too small and too_ weak _to protect them, but that didn’t stop him from trying. For every slap, punch, bruised rib, and concussion he suffered for his interference, Arthur became more determined._  

_Arthur sought power because he was sick of being helpless to defend the people he loved. There were only two sources of power that mattered on the streets he called home: brute force and coin._  

_Master George came from a far away land. He had dark skin and narrow eyes, and he taught the street rats how to fight. He taught the lads how to hit, block, and swing a sword and spear with skill. He taught his students how to win, but he didn’t train just anybody. His attention had to be_ earned _. Only those that were fearless and determined, able to pick themselves up off the ground, bleeding and bruised, every. single. time. were worthy.  It was only them that he would bother to train._

_Arthur became his fiercest student. Humility and discipline were beaten into his very bones and he grew strong._  

_Nobody respectable would hire a brothel brat, so Arthur worked only the jobs no one else would take. He ran messages between dangerous men, gutted fish, disposed of waste, and scrubbed until his knuckles bled for a single silver coin. Then, he learned how to play dirty. Street gamblers thought him naive, mistook him for an easy target because of his youth. Merchants, distracted so easily, rarely noticed their missing purses until it was too late._  

_Arthur was smart. He could see patterns and behaviors, knew how people were going to react before they even understood what was happening. The girls at the brothel taught him how to manipulate, to twist his words into exactly what people wanted to hear, to prod reactions out of people and steal their secrets._  

_Street rats, smugglers, merchants, and Black Legs all contributed to his ever growing coffers by paying money for his protection, for a place in his territory, for information, or for sanctuary._  

_He carved out a home for himself and his family in the grim and fear soaked streets of Londinium._  

_His crew, his_ family _, slowly expanded, piece by piece. The girls from the brothel, the lads that Master George trained, the street rats patrolling the alley ways. Wet Stick, Back Lack, Blue Boy, and Flat-nose Mike._  

_They called him ‘Boss,’ and he was content._  

~ 

Only those willing to sacrifice anything for power truly deserved to wield it. Vortigern _deserved_ it. 

The altar of his ambition was filled with the blood of his enemies, his allies, and his family. When misfortune struck, and his plans were crumbling down around him, he did not panic. He breathed deep, mourned a loss he didn’t wish to make, and made a necessary deal with the devil. 

With the Sirens. 

Blood soaked and desperate, he held his beloved daughter, his Catia, close in his arms. He stroked her hair, trying to wordlessly soothe her worries. She trusted him absolutely. A loving and kind daughter, she let him hold her without struggle and didn’t even fight as his dagger sunk into her side. He gave her as painless a death as he could manage. 

The Sirens accepted his sacrifice and the cove’s waters were dyed red with the blood of a loved one. 

For the second time in his life, Vortigern screamed out his agony.

Vortigern loved his wife and daughter, and that love was a worthy sacrifice for his dreams. Even if it was painful, there was no cause or emotion great enough to merit the sacrifice of ambition itself. 

~ 

_Hours later,_ _Arthur could still see Back Lack’s fear and resignation as the Usurper’s knife slit his throat, could still hear Blue Boy’s shrill screams of grief. Another boy whose father was ripped away from him too young. Too early._  

_All because of a damned magick sword and a single man’s selfish desires. For the first time in months, he questioned his purpose, his reasons for being there. Why should he care that he was the born king? He never wanted to be king, never wanted the power granted to him by virtue of his bloodline and the whims of an ancient mage._  

_His royal heritage had brought him only death and suffering. Everyone he held dear would never be safe as long as he held onto a throne he didn’t even want for the sake of people who looked at him and his family with disdain. Looked at them as if they were a necessary evil, to be tolerated but scorned._  

_So he threw the sword away._  

_Only, his life was never that easy. The Lady of the Lake dragged him into the depths, glassy eyes full of warning and judgement. She showed him the evils that would come should he fail, the blood that would be spilled if he were to abandon his people, before she shoved the flaming Excalibur back into his stiff fingers and cast him back out into the world._  

_She left him in the mud, screaming his agony._  

_Arthur loved his family fiercely, even as that love bound the threads of their fate to his own bloody destiny. Before the lake, he would have sworn up and down the streets of Londinium that no prize was worth the sacrifice of the people he loved. Now, he only hoped they would forgive him._  

~ 

Only fools trusted others with their own success and safety. Vortigern knew this like he knew the feel of a sword pommel in his hand and the weight of the crown upon his brow. Everyone was a tool, a weapon to be used to wreak swift retribution on those that would oppose him. Every servant was a potential catalyst for his destruction. An innocuous instrument slipped among his belongings, waiting and watching, eager to report his weaknesses to his enemies. 

Dear Maggie was truly a useful instrument. Serving his daughter and him faithfully and dutifully for many years, closer than any other retainers in the castle. Close enough to show his enemies when, where, and how to plan his assassination. They failed, of course, but he really should have killed her when he had the chance. 

Lord Mercia, the only Lord from Uther’s court who survived the early purges unscathed, was a steadfast and loyal presence at his side, but Vortigern was not fooled. Lord Mercia was fueled by the same ambition and initiative that flowed through his own veins. He could be trusted to do his job, no more and no less, before his loyalty became suspect. 

Vortigern preferred it that way. He knew all too well what blind faith could lead to. 

~ 

_Trust the Mage. That was what the Lady of the Lake bade him to do._  

_So Arthur allowed the Mage to take his hand in her own, just as he allowed the snake to slither up his arm and bite into his neck as her words echoed ominously in his head._  

_“You may see things that you do not want to see.”_  

_(This young man, he die fair soon; By the light of the hunter’s moon)_  

_As Arthur rode his horse through the dark forests of the north and straight into the Usurper’s murderous clutches, he allowed his mind to be drawn to the illusions that the venom let him perceive. He saw nature spirits, peering out of their trees to watch his passing sorrowfully and the bright and wicked glow of the Black Legs’ eyes on the draw bridge. Portents of doom, surely._  

_Still, he trusted in the Mage and let himself be drawn into the throne room and placed in front of his uncle, Excalibur held in his furious grip._  

_(T’was not by bolt, nor yet by blade; Or the berries of the woody nightshade)_  

_And, when the Giant Snake from the Darklands ripped through the throne room seeking vengeance for her lost child, she spared Arthur only by virtue of the venom pulsing in his veins._  

_(O father dear, I have this ail; From the par that the devil made)_  

~ 

Power gave him control, over his people and his court. It gave him control over his own future, a privilege that too many underappreciated and threw away like scraps to the dogs. 

Vortigern had never been so foolish. 

However, power alone was not always enough. He saw with clarity that it was how that power was _wielded_ that ultimately mattered. 

Vortigern had discovered that the most productive use of power was to incite fear. Love was fickle and could often be bought or undermined, and loyalty was rare and useful but ultimately transient in accordance with the follower’s own desires and goals. 

Fear, however, was pervasive, seeping into the mind and soul like a cancer and taking root. Fear could cow the brightest spirits and crush a rebellion before it had even begun. 

And Vortigern had seen nothing that could inspire fear so deep or so visceral as Excalibur in the heat of battle. 

His father and brother had both fought wars during their reigns, leading their men fearlessly into battle and carving huge swathes through their enemies single handedly with grim determination. 

He still remembered the sight of their conquered foes, trembling in sheer terror as they kneeled at the King of England’s feet. That was the kind of power, the kind of _control_ , that Vortigern had thirsted for his whole life. 

When the magick sword struck deeply into Uther’s back that fateful night, petrifying him into unyielding stone and trapping the sword beneath the sea, Vortigern could feel nothing but rage. Denying Vortigern, the new king, and his country the protection of Excalibur’s power and influence, was petty and shortsighted. 

For years, Vortigern had envisioned his perfected world: him, king of all the lands, and the fearsome glow of Excalibur bathing his conquered enemies in awesome and terrifying light as he held it up high in triumph. His strength and power absolute. 

Those visions always made his heart soar. 

~ 

_The weight of Excalibur in his hands terrified him as much as it inspired him._  

_Arthur had always prided himself on his control. Control over his own words and actions, and the actions of those in his crew and under his protection. Arthur knew he had a fiery and savage temper, but he rarely allowed it to show, molding it instead into cold calculation and retribution._  

_Holding Excalibur in his hands unmade that, unmade_ him _. It was not a feeling he was comfortable with._  

_The sword stole his vision, forcing him to see things, memories, that were best left alone. It sapped the strength from his bones and made his eyes burn. The Mage said that it was entirely his own fault, all the pain and confusion, because he refused to accept the sword wholly and without reservation._  

_She seemed both shocked and annoyed that a trip through the Darklands hadn’t yet cured him of his obstinacy when it came to the acceptance of his birthright. He was nothing if not stubborn._  

_But, Arthur no longer had a choice. Time had run out and, for the sake of his family and his people, he needed to fight. Not just with his own strength, but with the might and power imbued into the steel clenched tightly in his hands._  

_He wielded Excalibur with determination, crushed his enemies with a single swipe, saw the Black Legs drop their weapons in terror of his wrath, and felt nothing but numb._  

_He had a job to complete, a man to kill, and at least their fear made his task easier even as it made his heart feel heavy._  

~ 

Vortigern’s gold encrusted throne held a place of pride in the throne room. There were no other seats beyond simple wooden stools for his closest advisors. It was elevated high on a dais of stone, allowing him to tower over anyone who entered his presence. 

If they wanted to meet his eyes, they had to look up and expose their throat in submission. 

The Vikings were no different, despite their bristling wolf coats and their insolent eyes. When these wildmen from across the sea dared to question his authority, his sovereignty over England, he could not let it stand. Lord Mercia, ever the diplomat, made it clear that Vortigern would suffer no fools and no impudence from people such as they. 

The Vikings bent to his will. As they should. 

When his own people questioned him, challenged his authority, and called him _kin-slayer_ , he could not let it stand. He ordered executions, he took their children, malleable enough to be molded into perfect and loyal soldiers, his Black Legs. He increased their taxes and forced them out into the wild if they would not _submit_. 

And when his people were finally kneeling, trembling at his feet, chanting his name by rote and saluting his greatness, Vortigern spoke: 

“I will allow them their hatred, so long as they also fear.” 

~ 

_Arthur’s throne was a simple seat made out of wood, carvings of his ancestors’ deeds trailing up the sides. In the center of the throne room was a long table, piled high with food. There were no seats on the ends, every man present seated equal to and opposite of another. Arthur spent more of his time feasting with his men at the table than lounging upon his throne._  

_When the Vikings mistook him for an easily cowed fool, Arthur could not let it stand._  

_The Usurper had promised them 10,000 English lads for their peace, their ships, and their trade. Arthur would never,_ could _never, honor such a deal._  

_He was now King, and every citizen of England was now_ his _t_ _o protect. Not just the wealthy or the connected, not just the educated or the useful._  

_The cutpurses, the prostitutes, the liars, the cheaters and the gamblers. The merchants, the soldiers, the smugglers, the priests and the mercenaries. The teachers, the street sweepers, the mages, the murderers and the bankers. They were all_ his _to punish and protect and represent in this world and he would not be bullied or threatened into submission._  

_And when the Vikings were finally on their knees in front of him, recognizing and acknowledging his position and power, Arthur spoke:_  

_“Now that that’s out of the way, come dine with us. Why make enemies when you can make friends?”_  

~ 

When Vortigern’s subordinates entered the council room, they kneeled in front of his imposing desk. Littered with the latest intelligence and his own personal plans, the desk was intimidating and regal, like Vortigern himself. It was from here, sitting alone at the top, that Vortigern ruled his lands. It was this isolation, this solitude, that was the ultimate symbol of power. 

Even those that he had once considered equal in rank and duty would now lay prostrate at his feet, awaiting his every order. Ready to do his bidding and shape the world how he saw fit. Perfection. 

~ 

_When Arthur’s friends entered the council room and saw the half finished, round slab being constructed in the center, they smirked and began throwing around ideas of what their King could possibly be making. A dance floor perhaps? Maybe a giant cheese wheel?_

_Arthur rolled his eyes, drew his sword, and knighted the unapologetic scoundrels before informing them primly that it was a_ table _. That you_ sit _at. Bastards._  

~ 

Long live the King. 

~ 

_Long live the King._  

~~~

 

**_“You asked me what gave me such drive. It was you… I am here now because of you. You created me. For that, I bless you.” - Arthur Pendragon, The Born King_ **

****


End file.
